Mahogany
by ultrafreakyfangirl
Summary: Smut, smut, smutty, smut. :P Sorry, I don't have a summary for this one. The word speaks for itself.


**_Author's Note: Smutty, smut, smut. This takes place in season 4 – at the very end, but it's after that scene in which Linda notices the bite marks on Joe's ear. He comes back to her place in Albany a second time. Let me know what you think! This one's called "Mahogany" _**

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She knew that he had a girlfriend, knew that it probably wouldn't be nice to proposition him like she was doing, but when was she ever _nice_, to anybody? Besides, they had amazing, fucking sex, and when was it fair to deny the human body of something so primitive, something that, frankly, it needed to survive. She was looking at him with purpose, her gaze hard, unwavering with the metallic heat of lust.

He needed to know how she felt, and how she felt, what she felt, in this very second, was frustrated, fucking frustrated because he wasn't bending her over that mahogany dining table in her and Jason's _fucking show home._

She wanted to be repeatedly calling out his name, her yells not yells at all but voiceless cries, breathless whines, because she was so close and he was holding back, pulling her hair as hard as he could, fisting it tight in his hand and demanding her to beg for it. Louder. Louder._ Louder._

"Holy shit_," _she breathed out, and even she could hear that her throat was thick with both desire and the shame in it. He had a girlfriend. _And he as never yours to begin with, was he?_

He raised an eyebrow, supressed a laugh. "You okay?"

What, could she tell him the truth; that of course she wasn't fucking okay. She needed him so bad that everything hurt – her legs, her arms, her chest, her head, all becoming a swirl of red and heat, of tingles and blatant arousal, even her heart was screaming for him, screaming at him, to be inside of her.

She would never call it anything more than it was. She would never be so stupid, so fucking stupid, as to call it _love,_ or anything close. It was just a crazy sexual urge translating itself, using her entire body, her entire emotional repertoire – of anger, frustration, lust, desire, as its script. Never would that mean she was in love with this man. It wouldn't happen like that. It wouldn't happen at all.

"Nat, seriously, are you – "

"Linda," she blurted before she could stop herself, before she realized what she was saying made no sense whatsoever to anybody else but the inside of her head. "You have a Linda."

Joe chuckled, ran his hand through what hair he had left on his head. "Um, yeah. Linda's my, uh, girlfriend. So, with that in mind I should – "

"No." _What the fuck was she doing?_

"Stay. We can just…talk. Some more. I know we already talked a couple days ago but…"

_But there's a reason you're back here, on my doorstep, in fucking Albany, again. There's a reason you keep coming back here, and I keep letting you in my – Jason's – this – this house. There's a reason we keep having sex when we shouldn't, when you have a girlfriend, and I have a gay-senator husband. There's a reason this keeps happening, and there's a reason both of us seem completely powerless to stop it. We're not fucking soulmates, or whatever the fuck, and we're not – we don't love each other, or at least, I don't, you though, care too much for your own good. But there is, and always will be, a fucking reason. _

Literally not even five minutes later, when she was bent over that blessed mahogany table Jason had insisted on buying because it went with the rustic theme of the place – lord knows – she was feeling things she never thought her body ever would get to again; given that husband, bless his lovely, gay soul, just couldn't get her there anymore.

It was like he didn't understand a woman's body the way he once did, but he never understood one, understood _hers _like Joe did. _Holy_ _bloody_ _fuck_, he could get her to do things, say things, literally anything this man wanted from her in their moments of racing, feverish, unchaste sex, she would give him; he wants to be the man, _oh,_ he can be the man.

The shame only came later; it bled through her after her orgasm had come and gone, as she lay absolutely spent across the middle of that table, half of her body against it, the other half pressed into him, leaden and weightless at once.

She felt him kiss the back of her head, the gesture, whatever it was, whatever it was supposed to mean, suddenly much too intimate, close. She half expected him to say, _'let me stay the night' _and she half expected herself to agree.

"You need to go," she said instead, trying, and failing, to use her arms to push herself up off the table.

"You need to…" she tried again, thought maybe the words would make her body lift itself away from him, but she felt stuck in place, and suddenly it was not just physically, either.

His breath was nice on the back of her neck, calming, almost, where she would have normally been offended by it. His arms were still entrapping her, and his hands still had her hips, and they were solid, strong, slightly manipulative.

Right then, she was afraid that if she were to try and speak again, words wouldn't come, or they would, but they –

"You need to…_please_…touch me."

They would be that. _Motherfuck –_ she needs to get a lid on these fucking hormones, or whatever the fuck it was that was making it impossible for her to be without his touch, and his sounds, of his breathing, of his voice, his frustration, his unraveling, the sound he makes in the seconds before he comes, in the seconds before her name leaves the space between his lips.

Thankfully, he didn't say anything. She wouldn't have been able to go through with this, with letting him have her, like this, again, if he had. Her fucking dignity was already shot the second he lifted up her skirt the first time.

The second time, as his hand crept up and circled her slowly, dangerously, because it had only been a minute or so and she knew that he could feel that she was still swollen, and very, very, sensitive, if the desperate mewl she let out against her own volition didn't tip him off.

"Fucking…_fuck_."

"You like that? Hm?" he asked her, harshly biting her pulse point and tugging restlessly on her hair.

"Fuck _yes_."

He pulled her to him by her hair, which made her squeal in surprise but definetly not in anything resembling unsatisfaction, and when she moaned, she felt him there, hard as a fucking steal beam, in between her legs but not yet inside of her. It was driving her _fucking crazy. _

"Are you going to put your dick in me, Beer Can? Or am I going to have to wait all night?"

"Depends," he whispered into her ear, teasing her. "Are you going to come the second I do? Because, _come _on now, that wouldn't be any fun for me, would it? And baby, watching you squirm_ is_ fun for me."

Natalie tried to maneuver herself so that her entrance was in line with his dick, but he wouldn't let her move. At all. He scratched his nails lecherously, deliberately, down her back, and she felt it, she felt him draw blood, and the warm, almost soft sensation as it dripped somehow got her that much closer.

"_Mm…_I'm going to_ fucking_ kill you_._"

He chuckled. "I'd like to see you try, sweetheart."

"Shut up and fuck me," she practically growled, and she was taken by immediate surprise when he turned her around and lifted her up onto the table, pushing her back.

He got up onto it too and she nearly laughed in delirium.

"We're going to break the table and Jason is going to kill you. Kill me. I'll have to come up with some excuse because somehow, telling my husband I broke his pride and joy dining table because my - because you and I - were fucking on it seems a little insensitive."

Joe raised an eyebrow. "Just a little, huh?"

He hovered over her and she was momentarily stalled. It seemed like he was, too. They'd never done_ this _before, been in this position before - _fucking Christ,_ it was literally missionary position, it shouldn't even be considered 'a position' – _'positions'_ were where women contorted their bodies into pretzels and the men had to find an artful way to fuck them, things like that. This wasn't _that_. But_ this_ was also total uncharted territory.

Finally, when he fucking got over himself, he entered her, and she sighed in gratification.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet."

He was trying to sound coy, sexy, but instead it just sounded more like a regular statement than anything else. He was feeling awkward and she could pinpoint why, because so was she. She was just trying to ignore it and focus on the instinctual ways of her body, of her walls contracting around him and how fucking good it felt.

When she figured she'd avoided long enough, she got up the courage to actually look at him, look at him like a fucking normal person. It was a shock at first, watching him strain to give her pleasure, to give himself pleasure in that way, but after a minute or so, she started noticing things.

Things like how his eye color caught the light a certain way, how he had a small cowlick that brushed his forehead, or how his lip curled when he was focused,_ focused on pleasuring her. _

When he finally looked at her too, she saw it in his face, the way it changed, ever so subtly. She wasn't sure if it was in reaction to something physical, or if it was something else, but she didn't want to stick around to find out. She'd had enough of this bullshit. She needed release and she needed it now.

"Joe..."

Somehow, his name was enough. He snapped out of whatever weird spell he had been under, and she wondered for a second, a second too god damn long, if it was the same sensation that had come over her, when she looked at him, _really_ looked at him.

He'd been the only one she'd been with aside from Jason and looking at Jason when they'd have sex – at what was a baby face that aged gracefully over the years, right up until papery wrinkles made home along the underpart of his eyes – was easy, and it was something she wanted to do.

She loved him. She loved him so much that watching his release triggered her own, that she would give him head without expecting anything in return, though he always showed up, so she never had to wonder what it would be like if he hadn't, which meant that he loved her, and just as much.

And she didn't love Joe. Not like that. Not at all. And so looking at him, and having him look at her, was the both of them effectively stripping away those barriers that had always been there between them,_ protecting_ them. She watched him thrusting in and out of her with an odd fascination in her expression. She knew it was there, she knew he could see it, and she wondered what he was thinking, about that.

The last thought she had before she came in a sudden rush of heat and he followed suit, keeping their gazes locked, was that those barriers in place had protected them from doing something so colossally stupid. _Liking each other._ Maybe even something deeper than that.

But she wouldn't let herself think like that, as he helped her off of the table and pulled her skirt down for her, not now, and hopefully she never would have to again. There was an urge inside of her though – what did he think of that? Did he like looking at her? Was it – did it do anything for him?

She walked him out and closed the door on his retreating form, but still, that urge to ask him those questions, that compulsion she had but never acted on, wouldn't let her be. _Motherfuck._

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**_Author's Note: If there are any typos, I do apologize, so forgive me!_**


End file.
